Stalemate
by Hallowed Aegis
Summary: The God of Lies walks the streets of New York, plotting his revenge. When he meets up with SHIELD's ex Reader, the happy dance of lies, half-truths and betrayal begins, and the Avengers find themselves torn between duty and loyalty. All the while, something hunts in shadows, putting the nine realms at risk once more. Rated M for later content, Post IM3/ T:TDW; Pre Winter Soldier
1. A Walk in the Park

**Disclaimer: I do not own any characters of the MCU. I just wish I did... Ah well. Happy reading! (And Happy St. Patrick's Day!)**

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**Chapter One: A Walk in the Park**

The man was sauntering down the street, whistling good-naturedly. It was a bitingly cold March day, but he was, as always, immune to the chill.

Everything about his appearance whispered money, from the heavy grey wool coat and the gleaming black shoes to the delicate green scarf looped casually around his neck. Beneath the outwear, he wore a black suit. Close clipped blonde hair and sharp cheekbones made him striking rather than merely handsome. He could have been anyone; a stock broker, a lawyer, a professor - all professions in keeping with the polish and charm that practically radiated from his person. It was all for show, of course. None of it was real – the coat, the shoes, the hair, the suit. But he had always been fastidious about keeping up appearances, a trait that was doubly important today. He didn't want any uninvited attention on these visits to the city. Behind black frames, burning green eyes took in the city, never missing a detail.

He was in quite a good mood; his latest plan was inspired, if he did say so himself. And really, these quick trips were so _thrilling_, always on the verge of being caught. It always managed to get his blood pumping, adrenaline even now coursing through his veins. It was no mean feat, after all, to pop down to Earth and back without anyone being the wiser.

A bitter gust ruffled his hair as he turned into Washington Square Park, relishing memories not now long past. Today had been particularly successful. He had managed – at last! – to arrange the meeting that would send all the little pawns scrambling. A few more day trips – carefully planned so as to avoid suspicion back home – and he would have his prize. A small token, really; he had long since claimed the throne. Still, one ill turn deserved another, and he had never been one to let his enemies rest peacefully. In _pieces_ perhaps, but never in peace.

Chuckling, he began to work his way through the mostly abandoned chess tables. It was here that he noticed something rather odd. In spite of the chill, there were a few pairs at the tables, old men desperate for the watery hope of sunlight. Two tables over, however, was the anomaly. It was a lone figure, huddled against the wind to stare intently at the chessboard. Though he could only see a rather lumpy shape of a body, the hands were delicate; feminine, graceful hands that indicated the owner single handedly lowered the median age by thirty years. She was playing alone, moving the pieces steadily across the black and white squares. The men nearby gave her a wide berth, watching with some strange mix of respect and trepidation.

The man cocked his head to one side, a devilish smirk oozing across his hard, angular features.

"Well," he murmured, voice floating through the frosty air, "that's worth look."

* * *

He had been staring at her only for a few moments before she spoke.  
"If you're going to hover, stop blocking the sun," she said abruptly, eyes never moving from the board.

He hid a flicker of surprise; mortals so very rarely noticed when he was making an effort to be discreet. Curiosity piqued, he sat down opposite the strange, marshmallow-clad woman.

"There. That better?" he drawled.

"Not really," the woman replied, cobalt eyes never leaving the board. She proceeded to ignore him, fingers tapping her coffee cup idly.

"Come now. Are mysterious strangers so boring that you prefer to play imaginary opponents?" he asked playfully after several long minutes. In truth, her lack of response niggled at him.

"Don't be stupid. I'm obviously here to work on my tan," the woman retorted, moving the final piece into check.

"Clearly," the man said drily, taking in the layer upon layer of winter coats, hats, and scarves.

At last the woman looked up, eyeing him lazily over a coffee cup. "Yes. Now, how can I help you, Mr…?" she asked, a half-smile playing around her mouth.

"Kingsley," the man said smoothly. "I rather fancy a game, if you've the time, Miss..."

"Branson. Kera Branson," she said absentmindedly, drumming her fingers on the tabletop. Yet she made no move to rearrange the board. Instead, she continued to watch him thoughtfully. After a few moments, she raised an eyebrow. "So, Mr. Kingsley... Really now…" she murmured to herself, mellow voice swallowing a chuckle.

Loki cocked his head, considering. It didn't sound like a question; he had the oddest sensation that the woman knew he was lying. Grinning to himself, he nodded. This would be interesting.

* * *

Forty minutes later, and Loki was staring at the board. Though outwardly pensive, he was anything but; in truth, he was part incensed, part flummoxed, and very much intrigued.

The woman had played him, undressing him like a novice. As at the beginning of the match, he had the peculiar feeling she knew his plan. Every trap, every feint had been deftly disarmed or curtailed. By the time he had begun to play in earnest, it was too late; she had claimed his knight and both bishops, and from there proceeded to march up and down the board. She sat across from him now, eyes sweeping up and down the board before returning to rest on him, head half turned as if struggling to hear. This seemed to be her habit, having spent most of the game fixated on him rather than the pieces. Loki took the time to return the favor.

Far more of her was on display than had been originally. Her hats rested on the table, long forgotten, as was her first overcoat. Nutmeg hair fell from a messy bun, taunting a too-small nose. Her cheeks were flushed, burned by the harsh wind. Her eyes were currently amused, as if they knew a secret he didn't.

With a long-suffering sigh, he tipped his king. The woman didn't seem at all surprised with the move.

"What, no snappy rejoinder?" he asked, standing up to stretch.

"Nope," she said, eyes sparking wickedly up at him.

Loki harrumphed, but felt a wolfish grin tug at his lips. "Well my dear, to the victor goes the spoils. Name your prize," he said gallantly, forcing the charm into his voice while his mind began turning over the next possible game. Next time, he would not be so easily taken in. Next time, he would crush her.

The woman paused for a moment, as if distracted. Then she laughed outright. "Next time, you bring the coffee," she said, grinning impishly.

"Indeed. I look forward to our next game together, Miss Branson," he murmured darkly, not quite able to hide the menace behind his wide smile.

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**Well, there it is. Thoughts/ comments/ concrit always welcome. Hope you enjoyed!**

**I'm still playing with the voice for this. POV will be rotating, typically by chapter. Thanks again!**

**Shout out to the best beta there ever was - THANKS EM!**


	2. Weave and Weft

**I do not own any part of the MCU. Happy reading!**

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**Chapter Two: Weave and Weft**

Watching the odd man leave, Kera shook her head, smiling to herself. He was lying, of course; she knew that with out even having to read him. To be fair, he was well practiced, lying as easily as she breathed. But still, she could tell. She could _always_ tell.

It had been entertaining, she admitted to herself, draining the last bit of now frigid coffee from her cup. He had been practically alight with feints, false tells, and ruses, the game always changing, ever evolving. In truth – and she always told the truth – it was the best game she'd played in quite some time. Coupled with her curiosity, it was almost enough to make her want to play again, just to see how good he really was. Almost. While the match had ended on friendly terms, she knew that from now on it would be personal for this Mr. Kingsley. He wasn't the type that enjoyed losing.

Sighing about nothing in particular, she began to pack up, eager to get out of the biting March wind. In the process, she paused, spying an object she had somehow overlooked while lost in thought. The man had dropped his handkerchief; now it dangled from the trellised chair, batted this way and that in the breeze. With mock resignation, she reached for it, inwardly smiling at her now perfectly reasonable explanation for haunting this particular chessboard for the next few days. The moment her hand was an inch above the fine woven piece, she jerked away as if burned, shock flickering over her features before being replaced by what her clients had called "The Doc Face."

"What have we here?" she murmured, rubbing her hand absent-mindedly. It was all pins and needles at the moment, but that wasn't nearly as interesting as what she had felt in that instant.

Kera circled around and knelt in front of the seemingly innocent piece of fabric, staring at it intently. Quite unconcerned with any strange looks from the passersby – this was New York, after all; she was hardly the oddest thing they would see in their day – she held her left hand just over the creamy linen. Kera felt sweat bead her upper lip as she fought to center herself; it had always been so damnably _easy_ in the past. Something here fought her, though, the linen flitting coyly in the breeze.

She narrowed her eyes at it, and then forced herself inward. Gradually, she felt the world fall away, a soft humming sensation in her mind. Taking a deep breath to steady herself, she let the other voices around her fade, until just the echoes from this curious handkerchief reached her.

It had been with him for some time, she knew. Only that – and the sheer intensity of the emotions – could account for how clearly the sensations had been imprinted to the weave and weft. A dull ache slammed into her chest, an ugly hate coming to a slow boil. Images rather than thoughts flitted through the space between the woman and cloth. Queasily, Kera caught a glimpse of bright lights, and a fast scrolling ticker careening around buildings. A moment later she was jerked towards papers on a desk, a pen in one masculine, well manicured hand, twitching with impatience to sign on the dotted line. Then she was staring at a familiar desk ornament, titanium arms looping back and forth gracefully. Kera's heart leapt to her throat; she recognized that ornament, just as she knew the face that hovered just beyond, a warm, fluting voice a pale echo in her mind's eye. The sickening malice, the roiling pain she felt deep in her chest throughout the process, lashed out, eager to strike down the hazy figure.

* * *

She jerked backwards, scrambling on the wet cement in her haste to put some distance between her and the aberrant cloth. Dimly, Kera was aware she had skinned her palm in the process. Unconsciously, she moved to wipe her nose, and then blanched; bright, warm red flecks danced over her fast-swelling wrist.

A hand-shaped bruise flowered about her wrist before fading to nothingness, a dull ache echoing through to her bones. Her nose was bleeding steadily, her body's insistent reminder that while she was on her way to recovery, she'd never be what she once was. Shakily, Kera forced her legs into action, lifting her away from the offending object. She put the handkerchief in her mitten, taking care not the let the fabric touch her bare skin. She wanted to be somewhere safe before she experienced _that_ little treat.

Kera started running through her options, trying to force her erratic heartbeat back to some semblance of calm. Her breath tangled in her throat as she remembered; the man – Kinglsey – been in their office. More than once, by the feel of it. She had to warn them, obviously. The malevolence from the cloth continued to radiate from her mitten, a muted but still potent threat. Still, she could not overlook the fact that this Kingsley might come back for his handkerchief in the near future – or that it was a plant. The threat it whispered was genuine; that she knew.

Mind made up, Kera began to make her way out of the park, steps gaining confidence and speed. It was perhaps an hour's walk, nearly a straight shot from the park. While she could see her destination clearly against the Manhattan skyline, she knew better than to head there directly. She instead went towards the entrance to the subway, intent on leading anyone who might be following on a happy chase. It was not a pleasant thought; she felt her body recoil as she forced herself ever nearer the enormous sign. Cold sweat began to collect on her upper lip as she steeled herself to walk down the stairs. When she died, Kera was certain that a completely subterranean subway would be prominently featured in her personal version of hell. They were emotionally and physically claustrophobic; riding one for anything longer than five minutes had always been a trial, even before. Still, it was necessary; they had to be warned.

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Two hours of cold walks, overprices cabs, and a round trip on the line later, she arrived at the sleek, glossy exterior. Walking in, she didn't bother to stop at the front desk; she just marched toward the private elevator she knew was hidden behind two panes of opaque glass.

The security guard on duty made to stop her before his partner placed a restraining hand on his arm, shaking his head slightly.

"Trust me kid, you do not want to get in her way."

"But she's got to sign in," protested the younger of the two, trying to shake the veteran loose.

The older man chuckled. "Listen kid, there are some people you don't question in this business, and Ms. Brannon right there is one of them. She wants your car keys, you say yes ma'am, thank you ma'am, have a nice day ma'am. Trust me. You don't want to see what happens when you piss her off."

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**So... any guesses where she went? :D**

**R + R; feedback is always welcome. Thanks again!**

**~H. Aegis**


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